


Little Prince

by BreadedSinner



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Childhood, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3740059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreadedSinner/pseuds/BreadedSinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief look at what might have been the Chantry Prince's childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seven Years

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: I am aware this story alters canon slightly. In the game, Sebastian says his parents sent him to the Chantry before he could show his grandfather he could use his bow, indicating he was still alive when Sebastian left. I have, however, taken a liking to the idea that his grandfather dying was a factor in Sebastian became a shameful wild child, as he was one of the few people–perhaps the only person–who showed any real care and affection for him, and made any attempt to stop his parents from sending him to the Chantry. The names of his brothers and grandfather were invented. Also please be aware this story depicts children being picked on/struck.

Seven years old.

The wooden sword thwacked against Sebastian’s shoulder. The splintering slap of carved lumber against his skin sent waves of dry, reddening pain all across his back. His tired little legs gave out, unable to stand against both the sting of the sword and his fatigue. His knees and palms thudded against the grainy courtyard grass.

“Aha, I’ve got you now!” cried a voice from behind. Sebastian hunched over and cringed at the domineering sound of his second older brother–Damian Vael, the middle child–approaching. His shadow cast far over him as he came closer. “Do you submit?” he asked. His brother’s voice was eager and blazen, his words always hot and lashing. Sebastian could feel the spiteful smirk on his face, his words as slick as his dark hair and clever gaze. Happy to see little brother fail, as always.

With a small pooling of strength, Sebastian cupped his face in his hands. He turned and looked at his brother through the spaces between his fingers. Damian towered over him. His gloved hands clenched against the handle of his sword, ready to strike again.

“Well?” he said with an impatient tap.

“I…” Sebastian tried to speak through clogged, closing throat, but meager whimpers were all he could push out. His eyes welled up and he closed his fingers over his face like shutters, so Damian wouldn’t see. But he knew, he could always tell.

“Maker’s breath! Are you crying again?” he scoffed. “You always do this!”

“You did hit him rather hard,” inserted Baldwin, the eldest Vael child. He stepped in from the side after watching. His voice was calmer than Damian’s, but distant. He looked down upon Sebastian with a glazed stare. His pale blue eyes were like a frosted, indifferent ocean. His shadow reached even further than Damian’s.

“That’s how the blasted game is played,” Damian sneered with flared lip and glinting eyes. “I pursue until my enemy says he submits. Maybe if Sebastian actually listened, or Maker forbid he fight back.”

“Y, you hit me,” Sebastian murmured.

“What was that?” asked Damian.

Sebastian sniffled and smudged the tears on his flushed face. Sight filtered by water and irritation, but he could still clearly see the annoyance in his two brothers, so with wobbling legs, he hurriedly stood himself up.

“I said you hit me,” he belted out. “You gave me a sword, but I didn’t want to play. Then, then when you made me, you just batted your sword at my hand so, so I’d drop my sword.”

“So you do know how to speak,” said Baldwin. “And yes, now that I remember, I did see you do that, Damian.”

“Well, so what?” he countered. “War’s aren’t won by playing nice, Sebastian. And you can’t cry and run to Nana or one of the maids when you lose. Obviously I’d want you to drop your sword so you’d be no challenge. You should have seen it coming.”

“True,” said Baldwin. “It was an obvious tactic, perhaps too obvious.” Damian growled at the remark, but the eldest Vael gave no mind. “Any half decent swordsperson would have seen it coming and countered.”

“But I didn’t want to play at all,” Sebastian cried.

“It’s for your own good.”

“You think I want to do this with you?” said Damian. His teeth flashed as they grit together, every muscle in his bronze face twitched with anger.

“If you can’t fight, then you’re worthless to this family. Mother and father will send you away to the Chantry. Is that what you want?”

Sebastian gasped; the very word, the very thought of a closed off cloister, dark and waxy and away from all he ever knew, pinged his whole body with shudders. “N, no,” he whimpered.

“Then you should take our training seriously. We’re doing you a favor, Sebastian. It’s not as though you have any other talents.”

“What’s this I hear about training?” The boys’ grandfather and former Prince, Camillus Vael, walked into the courtyard. His face was creased with bags and wrinkles, his hair thinned and silver, but his visage remained proud, with firm jaw and sharp cheekbones. His back was hunched, and he supported his walk with a cane, yet he still towered, still walked with purpose. His voice was weary, yet still boomed. He walked towards the boys, smiling, but as he drew closer, and Sebastian’s teary eyes and pained expression became clearer, his smile disappeared. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. The two older sons became stiff and silent. “I asked a question, and I know you heard me.” Still no answer. He walked to Sebastian and turned to inspect the blooming bruise where the sword hit him. “Andraste’s blood! You two have been torturing Sebastian again! After I specifically told you not to!”

“We were training him!” Damian barked.

“The purpose of training someone is to educate them, so that they take the proper steps and make fewer mistakes. All you have been teaching Sebastian is that you are a cruel, unloving brother.”

“It’s just a wooden sword, it doesn’t even hurt that much!”

Camillus scoffed, a solemn huff that made the two brothers shudder. He took his cane and struck it against Damian’s ankle. It snapped against his skin, and Damian hopped, cradling his leg in pain. “Still smarts, doesn’t it? And you…” He turned to Baldwin. The eldest son gulped, knowing it was his turn. “You were just watching Damian do it, weren’t you? What kind of ruler do you hope to be, if the weakest and smallest of your people suffer? If all you do is watch when they need help most?”

Baldwin was silent at first, collecting words to piece together an argument. He answered slowly, “I… cannot afford a weak army. If Sebastian can’t learn to fight, then he…”

“He is not a soldier, he is a boy.” Grandfather Vael’s voice was as heavy and steadfast as steel, crushing the eldest son’s words beneath his own. “And so are you, as this display proves.”

Baldwin’s eyes went wide, mouth twitched. “You, you cannot speak to me that way! I am Prince of Starkhaven!”

“You are not. You are merely the Prince’s eldest son. If you continue this way, the throne will never be handed to you.”

“Are you suggesting Damian will become Prince?”

“Maker forbid,” sneered Damian under his breath, rolling his eyes.

“Perhaps, although as of now he’s no better than you. It may even go to Sebastian.”

The two older sons guffawed. “Sebastian?” cried Damian, “he’s just a runt! Look at him, he’s practically wetting himself!”

“He could not lead a fish to water,” stated Baldwin, “I will be Prince, as father said I would be, as I’ve been trained to be. You… you have no idea what you’re talking about, Grandfather.”

Camillus loomed over his oldest grandson, casting a long shadow and stony gaze upon him, blocking out the bright sun. Baldwin tried to keep composure under the pressure of his grandfather’s presence, but gave out a pitiful squeak when he met his eyes. “I will have to speak with your father about the hatred in your heart. Perhaps it is you we should send to the Chantry.”

“Y, you wouldn’t!”

“Oh? It’s a long standing tradition of the Vaels to send a child to their services, one each generation. It does not truly matter which one.”

Sebastian kept quiet, standing away from the others, inching farther away, his head down. He hopped in place when his grandfather called for him.

“You do not care much for swords, do you, Sebastian?”

“No, Grandfather.”

“I see.” Camillus tucked his fingers under his youngest grandson’s chin, so that he would look at him as his scowl melted away. “Come with me, my boy,” he said as he patted Sebastian’s back, leading him out of the courtyard. “I have something I think will suit you better than a blade.”


	2. Thirteen Years

Thirteen years old.

The wind batted against Sebastian’s face, ran chilled fingers through his hair. It flapped his clothes and looped through his bow. It rippled through the grass that brushed against his ankles. He kept his focus, eyes steady on point. The string stretched with the aligning of his shoulders and the straightening of his back. In defiance of the persistent gust, he knocked his aim accordingly. With a fluid flex, a twang and a snap, the arrow flew–so quick it almost seemed to fly from off his fingers–and whistled against the wind until it thudded against the target.

His grandfather inspected the bull’s eye, and the small bouquet of arrows at it’s center. “If I had any doubts, you put them to rest,” he laughed. “You, my boy, are a natural.”

“Thank you, Grandfather. It was easy,” Camillus slanted his brow, and Sebastian retracted. “Err, that is, with your help, I mean.” 

“That’s better. Talent and potential are all well and good, but they amount to nothing without practice.”

“Then I will keep practicing.”

“Hmm, and then what?”

Sebastian cocked his head. “I… don’t understand.”

“I’m glad I could pass my knowledge to you, Sebastian. I’m happy we could spend all this time together, and I think it’s changed you for the better.” Camillus tried to yank one of the arrows out of the target, but his wrinkled hand shook, and the other could not leave his cane.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he said as he sprinted over to pull the arrows out for himself.

“I’m trying to ask you what you want, Sebastian. Clearly you could lead your brother’s soldiers, if that is what you desire.”

“What I desire… is of no importance,” he sighed. “I will never be Prince, and if I cannot lead the militia, then they will send me to the Chantry.”

“You want to be Prince?”

“I do. Baldwin is a prick.”

“Sebastian!”

“He is! He only does as our parents instruct, he has no ideas of his own! It’s as though he doesn’t even care! He just… stands there.”

“Sebastian… I know you are frustrated, but Baldwin has come along way, and the throne is technically his by right. It is… ultimately your parents’ decision.”

“Of course.” Every passing moment, the calm that came with his firing focus faded. As if, without his bow, his tempers were free to flare. “Then when Mother and Father die, he’ll run Starkhaven to the ground, and he’ll be prince of dirt and ashes, all he’s fit to rule.”

“Sebastian, do not let this anger take a hold of you. Your place may not be on the throne, but there is a place for you.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“The Maker ordained a place for each of us, Sebastian. We have only to serve.”

Sebastian sighed again. “You’re trying to convince me to reconsider the Chantry again.”

“I only ask that you keep an open mind and not dismiss it completely.”

Sebastian clenched around the arrows, fingers tightening and tensing around the shaft. “But this is my life. I don’t want to spend it in some dusty building, praying. Please, please don’t ask this of me. I, I can’t, I won’t.”

“Did your parents threaten to send you there again?”

Sebastian looked down, watching his own fingers curl.

“Sebastian,” Camillus folded his hands over Sebastian’s, until the warmth of his contact settled him. “I am sorry. You’re still young. You have so much ahead of you, and so much potential. I promise I won’t let your parents send you away.”

“Truly?”

“I have my ways. As long as I live, no one will send you anywhere you don’t wish to go. Hopefully, by the time I go, we will have figured out the Maker’s plan for you.”

“Grandfather, please don’t talk that way. You still have many years in you.”

“Of course,” he said, voice low, as he broke away. His knees shook and he lost balance, falling over.

“Grandfather!” Sebastian cried as he caught him.

“Ah, damnation… can’t walk for very long without my cane.” Sebastian swiftly swept it off the ground and planted it in his grandfather’s palm. “Thank you. Now, I think I know of something you’re sure to want now. You remember when I first started teaching you, and you wanted my bow?”

“Yes, I…” Sebastian fuddled, looking away and squeezing his arrows. “I thought I would immediately become better if I had it. I couldn’t even lift it, much less fire it.”

“Well, you’ve made such progress, I think you’re ready to try again. Once you can pull its string and make a successful shot, it’s yours.”

“Truly? Thank you, Grandfather! I’ll get up earlier every day and practice even harder until I get it right!”

“I have faith in you, Sebastian.”


	3. Sixteen Years

Sixteen years old.

Seams of golden dawn stitched over the castle. The darkness of night was slowly folded over by spreading light, stars tucked away. Sebastian walked atop the ramparts, his weariness sapped by the brisk air. The cold filled his lungs, every hair stood on end. His hand clutched tight on the bracing height; every memory of every drop and clumsy misfire made with the longbow flashed as he held it. It had long limbs, ornately carved with wings at each end, and it stood almost as long as the tall young princeling. When he spotted his usual perch, he sprinted. His fingers shook and his insides quaked. and he gave the bow another squeeze before assuming his stance. He choked down the shakes in his gut and searched for his target. Today was going to be different.

His tower overlooked the barracks of Starkhaven soldiers. From his perch, Sebastian could see a line of dummies, all with helmets and armor slapped on.

“All or nothing,” he breathed, lightly brushing his finer over every fletching, to be certain he had enough arrows. “Get them all, or it doesn’t count. Don’t take too long, or it doesn’t count.”

He readied his sights and standing as he reached for his first arrow. The snap of the bowstring cut through morning silence, raised birds from their branches. There was a thump that followed the flick of string, but Sebastian did not think of it. He thought only of the next arrow, the next alignment, the next firing, and the next steady breath to keep it all together. Then the one after that, and the next, and the next. Only when he reached for his quiver to feel no fletching did he stop.

He gulped and squeezed the longbow as he leaned over the edge of the tower. Morning light spread across the empty field and made the armor on the dummies glint. With squinting eyes, Sebastian studied his targets. A row of five burlap people, each with helmets, a single arrow jammed through each of their visors.

He glanced at each one, rubbed his eyes of morning sleep, and studied them again. “I… I did it,” he said as the image sunk in and his eyes went wide. “I did it!” he declared with a victorious leap. “I did it!” he cried as he ran down the tower and through the halls. “Grandfather! I did it! I shot them all down from the highest tower! I did it with your bow!” The castle was silent and empty, even for the morning, but Sebastian took no notice. His long legs bounced, his turns were so sharp through the corners he nearly toppled over himself. “You should have seen it! Come out and look at the barracks! They’re all there, I got each one of them in the eyes! Grand–”

He crashed into a servant’s side. A crowd of people stuffed themselves in the hall, through the doorway of Camillus Vael’s bedroom. There were faints sobs coming from the inside.


	4. Eighteen Years

Eighteen years old.

“I’m glad your grandfather’s not alive to see what you've become.”

He heard it often. So often it lost meaning. That the very mention of his grandfather made his skin shake, his bones rattle, and he had to ball his fists tight with furrowed brow just to keep it from erupting.

“Well he’s not,” would boil on his tongue, but he would always swallow it back down, left to burn in the pit of his stomach. “He left me, and he let this happen to me.”

The longbow was placed atop a mantel in the great hall; away from prying hands, but where the most important people could gaze upon its glory. Sebastian stood before it, in a plain tunic, with a bag holding the most vital of possessions.

“I was foolish to think you could keep this from happening,” he mumbled. “Runts don’t get to chose what happens to them. You were an old man, no longer Prince, you couldn’t stop this. I was stupid to ever hope…”

“Sebastian!” a cold voice boomed from the other end of the hall. “It’s time to go.”

He gave it one last look before turning away, eyes on the floor as he walked, and left the castle, never to return.


End file.
